


Rewritten

by unknowableroom_archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Mystery, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-20
Updated: 2012-01-20
Packaged: 2019-01-19 23:45:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12420681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unknowableroom_archivist/pseuds/unknowableroom_archivist
Summary: Never trust a Happily Ever After. Things change too fast for that.----Hermione is hiding from the world, so what is Draco Malfoy doing on her doorstep?





	Rewritten

**Author's Note:**

> Note from ChristyCorr, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Unknowable Room](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Unknowable_Room), a Harry Potter archive active from 2005-2016. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project after May 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Unknowable Room collection profile](http://www.archiveofourown.org/collections/unknowableroom).

**No better way to celebrate the site being back than with a new fic, right? So here we go, the first chapter of 'Rewritten', a fic that I've had in my mind for a while now. It's Dramione, which is something new for me, but I've decided I quite like the opportunities their relationship could present.**

**You might notice that the only other fic I have on here is a story which has been...well...abandoned. That says something about my ability to finish things, so I'm making a promise here that I won't upload a chapter unless I've got the next one written. This one's kind of an exception since I wanted to see whether the story got a good response, a bad response or no response. I do have half of the next one written, though.**

**So, if you want it kept, please review and tell me, because although I really want to do this, it's a busy year for me and I don't want to do it for no reason whatsoever. Feel free to offer (constructive) critisism as well, okay.**

**I've had a few formatting problems whilst uploading- you might have to forgive me for the bit in the middle :(**

 

Hermione finished her book just as the light from the fire dimmed such that she could no longer make out the words. The book was good, especially for a cold, wet night like this, but its ending still managed to frustrate her. All the loose ends were tied, there was a quick kiss, and the main couple was set on a sure course towards a life of bliss. Yet for all she knew, they could die the next day. For some reason, the fact that it was so unrealistic had spoiled the rest of the fluffy romance the book had contained. It had gone _just_ too far, and popped the safe little bubble that the world of the book had become for her.

Why was it that authors could never capture lives realistically? If her life were a story, she mused, then killing Voldemort would mean that the wizarding world was safe forever, and there wouldn’t be death eaters torturing Order members left and right. If her life were a story, she’d still be with Ron, and ‘the golden trio’ would be living it up somewhere in London, instead of spread across the country, and she would be working as something sensible and reputable, like as a mediwitch, instead of being an ex-auror cowering in a cottage on a cliff. But things just didn’t happen that way. The entirety of life doesn’t really make for a good story. One chapter might totally contradict all that had happened in the last. It was like the way that she and Ron’s relationship had fallen apart – hadn’t they been the perfect storybook couple? But it had unravelled, until she couldn’t remember why she had been so immature as to think he was ‘the one’. And it didn’t have to happen like that, slowly, a gradual rewind. In fact sometimes it seemed like the smallest thing could rewrite everything that came before it.   
 

THUD.   
 

Her head jerked upwards so fast that she knocked the closed book off her lap. She had been drifting towards sleep in the cushions on her deep red chair, but all traces of drowsiness were suddenly gone and she was standing tense, with her wand trained at the door.   
 

No one she knew used the door to get in. Ever since she’d moved to her cottage, no one had visited her using any method other than the floo network or apparition. Harry and Ginny were too busy with their work to make a trip of it, and Ron hadn’t even spoken to her since she quit the ministry.  
 

THUD, THUD, THUD.  
 

The pounding came again, firmly at first, then it petered out into a shuffling noise that she couldn’t make sense of. Moving warily forwards, she called out. “Who’s there?”  
 

Instead of an answer, a loud groan emanated from behind the door. Although she was still suspicious, she began to wonder if this visitor was less sinister than she might think. After all, there _was_ the village down the road. A fair way down the road, but still, this could just be someone looking for directions. The rain _had_ been pretty horrid, it would be an easy night to get lost…in fact this could be someone who had injured themselves in the rain and needed her help! Berating herself, she hastened towards the door.   
 

“Trust the war to make me suspicious,” she muttered under her breath as she fiddled with the lock. Charmed so as not to open through magic, she had to open it the muggle way, which had not bothered her so far, but now she regretted the stupid enchantment, it was nothing but a nuisance. If someone wanted to get into the house they could just as easily climb through one of the many windows, or probably even fit through the dog flap that she had no use for. When her fingers finally managed to slide open the lock she was becoming increasingly concerned by the man’s continued moaning – for she could tell from the deep voice that her mysterious visitor was male. She apologised as she shoved the door open.   
 

“I’m so sorry, the lock was stuck. Can I help you? If you’re looking for the village it’s…” Her explanation trailed away into silence as she became aware of the fact that she was speaking to thin air. Or at least, it seemed that way, until she heard the noise from somewhere around her feet.  
 

“Ughhhhhhhhhh.”  
 

Hermione visibly blanched, and her hand touched the wood of her wand before she thought to reach for it.   
 

Malfoy.   
 

Draco Malfoy was lying in a fetal position on her front porch.  
 

Turning around and slamming the door became a valid option.   
 

She could vividly remember the last time they’d been in any way connected, during the war, when Harry had saved his life in the Room of Requirement. At the time she had not understood why, only been grateful that Harry’s act of mercy saved all their lives (through Narcissa’s lie). But standing shivering in her robe on the doorstep of her stone cottage in the middle of nowhere, she looked at Malfoy’s pitiful form and understood. There was no way that she could turn around and leave him to die.   
 

The thought grated hard against the part of Hermione that wanted to scream justice and let him feel some of the pain that he had put her friends, and particularly herself through. After all those times he called you a mudblood? That part of her threw the question out in disbelief. After he tried to kill Dumbledore?  


_Yeah, but he didn’t. He couldn’t make himself. That must mean_ _something._

__

I can’t believe you’re doing this! I mean – I mean what if he’s just faking it?   
 

Malfoy let out an enormous groan, rolled onto his side and proceeded to expel the contents of his stomach all over her porch.  


  
With a wry smile, Hermione knelt. _I guess that answers that then_.  
Wrinkling her nose as she drew closer to his shuddering form, the first thing she did was cast a cleansing charm, clearing away the vomit, and masking the overpowering scent of alcohol that clung to him like flies to excrement. Although it helped vastly, she couldn’t help holding her breath as she slid her arm under his shoulder and tried to help him stand. She was happy that he hadn’t passed out yet, because she would never have been able to lift him otherwise. He had changed since Hogwarts – grown perhaps, and he was not the slender framed teen that she remembered. He struggled clumsily to his feet, leaning heavily on her shoulder and she manoeuvred them through the low doorway and back into the firelight. Straightening slightly as they entered the room, Malfoy raised his head to look at her.  


  
   


  
“Thankthh you,” he slurred, his bleary grey eyes focusing somewhere over her left shoulder.  
   


  
Huh. Malfoys didn’t say thank you to anyone. When had he learned gratefulness? Certainly not from the death eaters. She was stopped from pondering further by his halting question.  “I hav – I have to…bathroom?”  
   


  
Unsure he could walk, but not willing to go with him, Hermione propelled him towards the door under her steep staircase. Thankfully it was already open, and he walk-tripped the three steps to the toilet, landed with his head over the rim and began to vomit again.  
   


 “Disgusting,” Hermione said more to herself than to him – talking to herself didn’t seem strange after living so long alone. Her own stomach clenched at the sight, so she turned to the fire. Since it didn’t seem that she would be going to sleep quite yet, she lifted a few more logs on, and crouched to blow gently on the coals. It wasn’t an entirely necessary action as they would light anyway, but she loved the way the sparks flew backwards and the glow of the coals grew intense with her breath. Once flames again danced up the chimney she stood and turned to see if her visitor was finished, only to find him passed out against the cool stone of the floor. She groaned aloud and was busy contemplating whether it would be easier to drag him by his feet or his hands when she slapped her palm to her face in realization.  
   


  
“What kind of a witch am I?” she muttered, reaching for her wand. “Wingardium leviosa.” Malfoy rose about a foot in the air, and drifted gently backwards out of the bathroom.  
   


When he was safely at rest on her couch, Hermione went rummaging 

  
through the drawer in which she kept her potions. It was the only time she would ever regret not being a frequent drinker – if Malfoy had stumbled on, say, George Weasley’s house, she was sure that he would have had a potion perfectly suited for Malfoy’s condition. As it was, all she managed to dig up was a potion called _gastronia_ that would soothe his stomach. That was relieving; she didn’t want him ruining her favourite rug by hurling on it.  
   


  
“Malfoy, you need to open your mouth,” she demanded of his limp figure, and emphasised her point with a ruthless poke to his cheek with the potion bottle. She was rewarded with a groan and nothing more. “Come _on_ Malfoy, you’ll thank me later, I promise. Open!” He shifted on the couch, rolling to face her where she knelt, and his eyes slid open.  
   


  
“Ah hah! You _can_ hear me! Now open _up_ you stubborn sod,” she prodded, and as soon as his lips parted she poured a good sized amount of the potion down his throat and watched to make sure he swallowed. She knew it had worked when his face cleared slightly and his eyes came to rest on her face before he breathed “Thank you” again. The second time in an hour. She began to wonder if he was not just drunk, but possessed. He pressed his head into the fluffy pillow that she had placed under his head, messing up his white blonde hair even more than it had been before. She could see dark circles etched into the skin under his eyes and a million questions flew through her head. Why was he here? And in such terrible shape too, for she could see a line of bruises tracing just above where his torn, dirty, white collared shirt ended, and a deep cut down his right cheek. Was it even safe for him to be in her house? As his eyelashes drifted back downwards, she heard him mutter something unintelligible.  
   


  
“What?” she asked him.  
   


“You know my name,” he repeated. It was a statement, not a question. 

  
She started, wondering if he hadn’t even realised who she was.  
   


  
“Yes. You know my name as well…” she didn’t want to finish, what if he reacted badly when he learned it was her?  
   


  
“I know your name…I do know your name. Your name is...” His voice was barely a whisper, she had to bend her ear down to hear him. “Your name is…Hermione. An angel. Hmmm, Angel.” And then he was asleep.  
  

He was most _definitely_ possessed.

  
She was going to walk straight up to her room, but she noticed he was covered only by a tee-shirt and jeans, and it was a cold night. She extricated a quilt from a cupboard, one that Mrs Weasley had made for her back when she and Ron were still together. Placing it over his sleeping form, she almost laughed at the absurdity of it all. Her, Hermione Granger, caring for the Slytherin prince. If someone had warned her that this would happen at school she would have laughed in their face.  
   


__

_____________________________________________________

 

_Isn’t this just ironic_ , Ginny mused. _The man who stood up to Voldemort, too scared to break up with a girl.  
_  

“It’s just that…I…I think…” He sputtered to a stop and became fascinated with the patterns of wood on the floor.  
 

“Oh for God’s sake, Harry! Do you want me to do this _for_ you?”   
 

He looked at her with pitiful eyes, and she rolled hers. “Look, we both know that something’s been wrong for months.” He nodded. “And that the war changed us both.” Another nod. “And that neither of us have been happy in this relationship for a while, and that maybe we’d just be better as friends?”   
 

“Yes.” Harry breathed a sigh of relief.  
 

 “And that you’re going to give me a million galleons.” Harry was half way through nodding when he realised. “Ye – Whaa?”  
 

“Oh lighten up, Harry Potter. I’m not angry at you, are you angry at me?” He shook his head no. “Great, no one’s angry! So quit worrying, okay? This doesn’t have to be a horrid, terrible breakup with screaming and crying, if we’re both happy with it, then we’re fine. In fact, we’re more than fine – we can be friends now, remember? Proper friends.”   
 

A smile spread across his face for the first time. “Yeah. Proper friends.” She reached out her hand and he shook it decisively.   
 

That evening Ginny found herself sitting on her bed, staring blankly at the wall in front of her. She wasn’t sad about breaking up with Harry. Things had been headed south for weeks, he was so wrapped up in rebuilding the wizarding world that he hadn’t had time to properly repair their relationship, and she knew that she hadn’t been the right person to help him recover after the war, with her remaining mistrust of him after he left her totally out of the loop for a whole year. It was more that now, without him, she was forced to confront the question that had been niggling at the back of her mind for a long time. What now? Halfway through the year she had decided that it was time to stop mourning for Fred and the others, that it was time to stop moping and do something, but unlike Ron, Harry, and Hermione she hadn’t had an automatic ‘in’ into ministry work, and she wasn’t even sure that was what she wanted to do. So without a job, she was stuck brooding at home, or trying to accompany her father on his trips around the country to find muggles that had been affected and modify their memories, which he rarely let her do.   
 

Her eyes strayed across her messy room to the broomstick that rested in a corner behind her door. It had gone practically unused for the whole year. Everyone seemed to be too busy – even Harry had turned her down the few times she’d asked him to join her in a game. Unwilling to move from the bed she pointed her wand at it. “Accio broomstick!” she called, and it flew into her hands. Gripping it, she closed her eyes and remembered the feel of the wind in her face as she flew, the pure thrill that soared through her as she managed to toss the quaffle through the hoop.   


_I wish I was back at Hogwarts._  
 

She sat up with a start. Where the heck had that thought come from? She thought she didn’t ever want to go back there, what with all the horrible memories that haunted it after her sixth year. But now she found herself remembering all the good times, the good, _normal_ times. Studying with friends, Hogsmeade trips, laughing in the snow and shopping at Zonko’s for the weirdest toy they could find. Feasts in the great hall. Late nights gossiping in the canopy beds of the dorm. Stunned, she realised that she missed it. She missed it a lot.   
 

Maybe, just maybe, she wanted to go back? The thought wasn’t as horrid as she expected it to be. In fact it was downright appealing. She was going stir-crazy here, she needed something to _do._  
It was totally plausible. She was slightly young for her year, she’d just be a bit old now. She was sure McGonagall would let her go back, in fact she would be surprised if there weren’t others from her year returning to do their seventh year late. And then she could study, do something _she_ wanted to do. Do things the normal way.

  
 

And just like that, she dragged a trunk from under her bed and began tossing things into it. It was nearly September – more than a year after the greatest war of wizarding kind. And it was time for her to move on. It was time for her to go back.  


 


End file.
